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If you’re a vegetarian or vegan, I don’t suggest reading this post. I have plenty that don’t involve food in the rest of my blog. I don’t want to give away my subject, and I don’t poke fun at people who choose to eat differently than I do, but you won’t enjoy this. Also, I don’t want mean comments, because then I’ll have to cry and comfort myself over a plate of bacon. So really, no one would win.

I don’t say it a lot, but I love my share of bacon and steak. There is an entire month where multiple birthdays and celebrations fall, and I’ve come to call it Steak Month. I always play it off like I’m going to eat an alternative entree on one occasion, but there are 4-5 where I can eat steak. Sometimes, I surprise myself and pick something else, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t even consider steak. I drool the entire month leading up to it. It’s like my version of Shark Week.

Last week, my husband, Parker, some of his family, and I went to this steak house for family birthdays. This was our first time there so I didn’t know anything about it, but Parker found it online and it sounded amazing. I always try to look nice for steak, because sometimes you dress up for your amazing dinner–not because you’re going to a place with a dress code or because you’re out with your husband. However, I also forgot to switch shoes and wore my crazy pink/blue/black flip flops. Nothing says class like neon flip flops that don’t really go with anything.

When we got there, the hostess explained that everyone at the table had a card. Green meant go, and red meant stop. Green meant “more meat” (which made no sense to me at first, because red should mean meat), and red meant “no thank you.”

I found out why green meant go.

In Hello Dolly!, there’s this scene where the waiters fly out of the back of the restaurant where (I’m guessing) they’ve been doing a ton of illegal drugs before dancing their asses off, doing flips, and freaking out, because Barbara Streisand.

This is basically what happened. We flipped our cards to green. Unlike Monopoly, this game moved VERY quickly and so did the players. Waiter after waiter came over and cut us off slices of meat. They were all Jeeves’ like about it too. The waiter would say, “Filet minion?” I would bat my eye lashes and say, “Oh, certainly!” and he’d say, “How do you like it?” And I’d say “medium rare,” and he’d say, “Very good,” and cut it. It was like getting gold stars for being a carnivore. I was going to say omnivore, but let’s face it, I didn’t understand the salad bar. I didn’t even recognize or understand some of the cuts, but like in improv, you have to say “Yes and” to things in your life, and for me, guessing if something is a steak I like can be a good game. Yet, I still got angry when I got passed over for steak because I had bacon wrapped chicken and a sparse helping of salad on my plate. My nephew who likes chicken offered to take my chicken so I could make room for more steak. I like him considerably more since that happened. I think I said, “Bless you, my child,” but I was in a steak dream where waiters appear from nowhere and give you meat until you flip your card over FAST. Seriously, it was like a Bond movie where they come down on ropes from a ceiling (that does happen in at least ONE Bond film, right?).

The more of them that came out, the happier I became (I may have clapped my hands together gleefully several times), and finally when one of our staff members asked if I wanted anything else to drink, I said whiskey. They brought me whiskey on the rocks, and I felt like Don fucking Draper.

Then we ate steak and flipped our cards and more delicious medium rare, choice cuts sashayed out like some fantastic parade on stilts (they were skewered). The best kind where I don’t have to sit in a lawn chair for hours or stand in the heat or the worst, the time I was IN a parade because some stupid loser told me it would be fun (probably my childhood enemy) and I believed her. No, this was a parade of steak. Where was it all coming from? Was there a cow the size of Texas outside? What did they do with the leftover meat? In the words of Roger Sterling or Ben Linus, “Who cares?” The second person is less applicable, unless you’re an herbivore, and if so, seriously, you should have skipped this one. I wasn’t lying up there.

So I swilled my drink and pretended to be fancy. I kept telling Parker, “I should have brought my camera,” because it was the one occasion where I actually would’ve taken pictures of my food and whiskey. They just looked perfect, and since I don’t care much for food, that was about as intense and awesome as it was going to get.

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